


Mourning

by Guanin



Series: Limping Forward [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows season 2, episode 7 "Mommy's Little Monster". Oswald wakes up in Jim's apartment, a hole in his shoulder and an even bigger one in his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mourning

Pain. Pain was all Oswald felt now. Pain when he moved. Pain when he spoke. Pain when he breathed. Pain had consumed his entire existence.

He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. The dim haze of city lights streamed in through a window to his right, but apart from that, the room was dark. He lied on a bed, a thick comforter tucked up to his chin. He tried to get up, but pain ripped through his left shoulder, making him cry out and drop back on the mattress, breathing sharply. 

A sliver of light turned on under a door across from him and soon that door opened, letting in the full, blinding effect of tungsten lighting and Jim Gordon. What the hell was Jim doing here? 

“I’m sorry about the light,” Jim said, squinting as much as Oswald. “Did you just wake up?”

His hair was tussled, dress shirt fully unbuttoned, showing his undershirt. Had he been sleeping in the other room? 

“Where am I?” Oswald asked. His voice sounded gravely to his own ears.

“My apartment.”

Oh.

“I found your car—the car you stole by the side of the road. You were unconscious. I brought you here and had someone patch you up.”

“Someone?”

“A black market doctor. Not exactly my first choice, but I couldn’t take you to the hospital and I don’t want to involve Lee in this.”

Jim seemed to be having trouble meeting his eyes. Was that shame? Did saving the wanted murderer tax his conscience? Or was this all too awkward after he protected the man who killed Oswald’s mother? From him? 

“How altruistic of you,” Oswald muttered, turning away. Tears pricked in his eyes like they had for days now. Since his mother had been kidnapped. Since—

His breath hitched, a sob bursting from his throat unbidden. 

No!

He wouldn’t cry in front of Jim. Not again. He tightened his lips, swallowing the next sob before it could fully form.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Jim said. “She seemed like a good woman.”

Oswald scrunched his eyes shut. Tears squeezed out.

“Thank you.” He wiped his tears off against the pillowcase. “But you know what would have been infinitely more welcome? If you had let me kill the man responsible for her death.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? And don’t cite your precious law at me.”

But, of course, that was why he had. Why else? Even though he apparently already knew that Galavan was a monster. 

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then I don’t care to hear it.”

“I couldn’t let you shoot him. He’s turned the whole city against you. And no one knows what he is. He would have died a hero. Apart from the fact that it would be murder, but I know that you don’t care about that.”

“Then arrest me, Jim.” Oswald glared at him. “Lock me up. Because that’s the only way that you’re going to prevent me from killing him.” 

Jim’s shoulders slumped in a sigh and he looked away. Yet he offered no rebuttal, no tiresome speech about the sanctity of the law. He simply said, “I’ll get you some food,” and walked out of the room. 

Oswald dropped back on the bed, more tears pricking his eyes, the pain in his shoulder stabbing through his nerves. He looked down at himself. His torso was bare under the comforter, but his legs were covered in unfamiliar sweatpants, which stretched out past his ankles. Oh, look. He had made it into Jim’s pants. And this was obviously his bed. Hardly how Oswald had dreamed that it would happen, and obviously that wasn’t what was happening now, but it didn’t matter now. His mother was dead. What else could possibly matter? Another sob escaped his lips. He muffled it with his hand, furiously wiping off tears with his knuckles as he heard Jim’s footsteps approach.

“It’s fast food,” Jim said, reentering the room, a paper bag with “Arby’s” printed on it in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other. “Sorry about that. There weren’t a lot of places open at one in the morning. I got you a turkey sandwich. I figured that would be better than a burger.”

“That’s fine,” Oswald said, hating how his voice cracked.

Jim placed the bag and glass down on the side table while Oswald focused on keeping his breaths even and not bursting into tears again. Jim lingered awkwardly by the table. Oswald caught him looking from the corner of his eye. 

“Let me help you sit up,” Jim said.

“I’m fine.”

“Oswald, I know you’re mad at me, but you need help.”

“I can manage it.”

Rolling onto his right side, Oswald propped his right arm under him and pushed himself up,, wincing as the movement jarred his injured shoulder. Jim stepped forward, but didn’t touch him, not until Oswald started pushing himself back toward the headrest with his legs and he gasped in pain. Jim picked him up with an arm under his knees and another at his back and carried him the few, annoying inches to the bedrest, propping up the pillows behind him so that he could rest against them. Oswald avoided looking at him, his breath suddenly heavy with more than sobs for his mother. He had lost hope so long ago that Jim would ever treat him with such kindness, that his friendship would be corresponded, yet now there were finally inklings of it occurring. Now. Why did it have to be now? It took the death of his mother for Jim to finally regard him like a human being and not just a tool at his disposal? 

“I’ll leave you alone now,” Jim said, sounding almost apologetic.

Oswald let him go, let the steps grow further and further away out of the room and through whatever space lied beyond it. He wanted to call him back. He did. But he also didn’t. He wanted no part of Jim’s pity, knowing even then that he was being unfair to Jim, but he didn’t care. Everything in him hurt. Everything was pain and smoldering ash and he couldn’t see how he could ever be happy again. He grabbed the glass of water, gasping at the sudden motion, and guzzled every drop, tears starting to stream again before he could lower the container from his lips. His hand shook as he returned it to the table, almost dropping it as sobs ripped through him again. He pressed his hand to his face, but he did nothing to stop them this time, not caring if Jim could hear him through the closed door or not. 

`````````````

Jim returned some time later to check on him. Oswald had slumped back down, curled onto his right side as much as he could be, the blanket hem moist with tears that he had dried off on it after the tissue box on Jim’s table had run out. Jim picked up the box, surveying the used tissues that Oswald had stuffed back into it. 

“Shit,” Jim said. “I should have brought you another box. I should have thought of that. I’m sorry. I think I have one in my supply closet somewhere.”

He left, presumably to get the new box. Oswald hadn’t moved since he arrived, only glancing up at him. His tears were dry for now, but they would return again. They always did. 

“Here,” Jim said sometime later, returning to the room, a full box in his hand. “New box.” 

He placed in on the table next to the paper bag, which Oswald hadn’t touched at all. Jim opened it, frowning when he noticed this fact. 

“You didn’t eat,” he said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Starved. But what did that matter?

“I don’t want to eat,” Oswald said.

“That’s not what I asked. You were shot. You need food to recover your strength.”

Goddamnit. Yes, Oswald knew this was true. The sooner he recuperated, the sooner he could go and slash Galavan’s throat until there was no more blood left in him. but the thought of putting food in his mouth and swallowing it made his stomach heave. 

“I’ll eat on my own time, Jim.” Oswald resisted the urge to tug the blanket tighter over his shoulders. “Now leave me be.”

“Fine. If you don’t want the sandwich, I can get you soup. I think I have a couple of cans in the pantry.”

“I don’t want anything. What don’t you understand about that? I’m tired and I feel wretched. Just leave me alone. Please.”

Oswald pushed himself onto his back, turning his head away from Jim. Jim stepped around the bed. Oswald turned his face away again, but Jim only followed him. Oswald glared at the man, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Could you please stop that?” he said.

“I’m not leaving until you agree to eat something.”

For fuck’s sake. Why did Jim insist on being so irritating? 

“Why do you care?” Oswald asked. “Hm? If I don’t wish to feed myself, that’s my own business.”

“It’s my business when you’re in my apartment with a bullet wound on your shoulder that I paid a doctor who I should have arrested to treat.”

“That’s easily remedied. I’ll just leave and pay you back.” Oswald shoved off the blanket, kicking it off with his feet. “I’ll drop off the money in the afternoon.” 

He pushed himself up, tossing his legs over the edge of the mattress, then stopped when a sudden weakness overtook his body, his injury flaring. He braced himself on the bed with his right hand, clinging on as the dizziness subsided, his breaths quick and deep. 

The paper bag crinkled as Jim opened it. Jim held the wrapped sandwich out to him as he sat beside him.

“Oswald,” he said, softer than Oswald had ever heard it. “Please eat.”

Oswald’s resolve gave. He was too weak to object anymore. He took the sandwich, ripped the wrapping open, and forced himself to take a bite and chew. The salty tang of the deli turkey and tomato felt like glass shards, but he swallowed it down, clamping his mouth shut until it slid down his throat. 

“Thank you,” Jim said. 

Oswald said nothing, but he kept eating. 

````````````````

Oswald barely finished the sandwich, but he made forced himself to so Jim wouldn’t complain again. He had remained by Oswald’s side the entire time, a silent presence. At first, Oswald had been pettily inclined to think that Jim was making sure that Oswald would finish his food, as if he were a child. But he had to admit to himself that he was very glad for the man’s company. He hadn’t expected any of this. That Jim would look for him, perhaps, but not bring him to his home and tend to his wounds. Or practically stuff food down his throat. 

The last irritating piece of bread finally consumed, Oswald crumpled the wrapping and tossed it on the table next to the tissue box. 

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “Why not arrest me and take me to the hospital?”

“It would be too easy for Galavan to get to you in a hospital.”

“Such concern for my welfare. I’m touched.”

Sarcasm dripped from his tone, but he was in no mood to temper it now. 

“I don’t want you dead.”

“Yes. We both know how much you value keeping everyone alive, even those who shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not going to apologize for doing what’s right.”

“Do you have any idea how much death and destruction that man is responsible for?”

“You killed Janice Caulfield in cold blood.”

“To protect my mother.”

“She wasn’t the only one you’ve killed.”

“I am what I am. I will not apologize about it to you. I don’t care what you think of me anymore. I would do anything to protect my mother. Would have done anything.” 

Past tense. Nothing more than wretched past tense now. Tears burned in his eyes again. Fuck! Not now. Not fucking now. 

“Judge me all you want.” Oswald pushed himself up with his right arm, ignoring the weakness in his knees as he pulled himself onto his feet. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Jim stood up with him. 

“You shouldn’t be getting up,” he said, fake concern on his face. It couldn’t be real. He was probably just keeping Oswald around so that he could uncover Galavan’s plans. Although he was right about one thing. Oswald really should sit down before he fell down. His knees shook as he took a few tentative steps, but he didn’t want to be near Jim anymore, and kicking him out of his own bedroom would be weird. Now all he needed was to find his shoes, something to cover his torso, and his phone so that he could call Gabe to come get him. And not faint. That would also be splendid, but the dizziness assaulting his head was making that possibility more and more likely as he ambled through the bedroom door, past a bathroom, and onto a small living room. A fleece coverlet lied in a pile on the couch. Of course. With Oswald on his bed, Jim had no option but to take the couch. This was a one bedroom, by the looks of it. That couch looked really comfortable right now. No. No sitting. He had to find his shoes.

“Where are my shoes?” he asked, leaning heavily on the wall. 

“In the closet,” Jim said.

He had been following closely since Oswald left the room, probably ready to catch him should he collapse. That didn’t sound bad, actually. Collapsing in Jim’s arms. Crap. The grief and blood loss had made him maudlin. 

“This closet?” Oswald asked, looking at a narrow door besides the living room.

“No, the one in the bedroom.”

Shit. Scrambling against the wall with both hands, he turned around, only to find himself blocked by Jim, who was regarding him with that damned, pseudo concerned expression of his that didn’t mean anything because Jim didn’t actually care about him. If Oswald dropped dead right now, he would just be sorry that he lost a valuable witness against Galavan. Nothing more. 

“Please let me pass,” Oswald said.

“Oswald, you can’t—“

“Why do you keep using my name?”

Jim frowned.

“Because it’s your name.”

“I’ve never heard you call me by it before.”

“I—I guess it just never came up.”

“Stop trying to be my friend, Jim. Not now that I’m grieving for my mother. It’s tacky. I wanted to be friends. You wanted to keep things cold and business-like. Well, you won that round, so let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Now Jim did look sorry, but probably only at being caught. 

“I would never use your mother’s death to manipulate you,” he said. “That’s not what I’m doing at all.”

Oswald’s right hand had slid along the wall until his forearm rested hard across it, his fingers trembling with the struggle of keeping him up, but Jim still wouldn’t move. 

“Then why are you being so nice to me?”

“It’s called human compassion. I’m not heartless.”

“If I didn’t have information on Galavan that you so desperately wanted, would you have come looking for me?”

“Oswald, I—“

“Stop calling me that! Would you have?”

Jim closed his mouth and actually paid Oswald the courtesy of considering his question.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe not.”

Disappointment ached through Oswald. Not that he had been expecting anything different, of course. But it still hurt to have it confirmed.

“Finally,” he said, smiling as if he were chewing through glass. “A little honesty at last.”

“Look,” Jim said, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m a cop. You’re a criminal. I really don’t know what else you expect from me. It’s not like I’ve betrayed you.”

Dizziness crept at the back of Oswald’s eyes. The pain in his shoulder had doubled within the last minute, making his breathing raspy. It was just the wound, not anything that Jim had said. Not anything that would really hurt.

“Of course,” he said. “Foolish of me. If you’ll just let me get my shoes, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You can barely stand. You’re not going to be able to walk out of here. Come on, sit down. You don’t have to come over to the bed. Just sit on the couch.”

Jim stepped aside and patted the couch’s closest armrest. It did look so very tempting. What were the chances that he would be able to walk out of here on his own two feet, anyway? Not high at all. And calling Gabe from the couch was fine. Gingerly, he pushed himself off the wall, and took the few faltering steps necessary to make it to the couch, congratulating himself on not slipping to the floor as his knees threatened to give way. He collapsed on it, the drop jarring his shoulder. He couldn’t help the wince that escaped his lips. 

“Do you want a painkiller?” Jim asked. “It’s past the dosage time of the one that the doctor gave you.”

Oswald nodded., shutting his eyes as he dropped his head against the cushions.

“I’ll be right back,” Jim said. 

“And bring my shoes, please.”

Oswald heard him swallow a sigh.

“You don’t have to leave,” Jim said.

“Just please bring them.”

Jim returned a short while later, shoes and a glass of water in hand, the pill bottle tucked under his elbow. He placed the bottle and glass on the coffee table and the shoes by Oswald’s feet before sitting beside him and opening the bottle. 

“It’s two every eight hours,” he said, handing Oswald the pills. Oswald reached for the glass himself, but he winced as he leaned forward and Jim grabbed it before he could. 

“Would you please let me help you?” Jim said, giving him the glass.

Oswald glanced at him before taking the pills, downing half the glass in one go. 

“It’s true that I want you to help me catch Galavan, but I do want to help you. I don’t actually like seeing you hurt.”

“Truly? I recall you handcuffing me to a radiator and threatening to leave me there to be murdered by Maroni.”

Oh, look. Was that shame shadowing Jim’s face?

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Not a very nice thing to do. Especially you, of all people. I’ve forgiven many things from you, Jim, but there comes a point when I need to reevaluate whether I can trust you or not.”

“I get that. But you can trust me now.”

“Why? Because I didn’t wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed?”

“Well, yes.”

_I’ve finally found someone I can trust, mother. A policeman._

He shoved the memory away. 

“Trust has to be earned, Jim. I thought you had when you saved my life, but I guess I let my feelings cloud my judgment. You’ll excuse me if I take this new offer of friendship with a grain of salt, especially given the circumstances.”

“That’s fair.”

Oswald closed his eyes again. He was so tired. All he wanted was to sleep and dream of a world where his mother was still alive. 

“Why did you trust Falcone?” he asked.

“What?”

“You arrested me, yet you tried to help him regain control of the city. I offered you friendship, yet you chose a man who wanted you dead.”

“He seemed like the least worse option. The city was in chaos. Maroni was too reckless. You… Well, if you want honesty, I didn’t think that you could hack it. You were inexperienced. And my father trusted Falcone. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.”

The fatherly connection. Right. Jim would be the type to go for that sort of thing.

“And he didn’t kill me when me and Harvey barged into his house. I never understood that.”

Oswald snorted. Oh, that was precious. Did Jim actually think that Falcone had spared him out of some sudden sense of mercy? 

Jim narrowed his eyes at him.

“What do you know?” he asked.

“About what?”

“You know why Falcone didn’t kill me, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“That’s a yes. Why didn’t he?”

“Honestly, does it even matter anymore? Falcone isn’t coming back.”

Jim turned further on the couch to face Oswald.

“If you know something, I need you to tell me.”

“Already making demands? Well, that didn’t take any time at all.”

“Oswald, please.”

His name again. For fuck’s sake.

“Fine. It was me. I asked Falcone to spare you. He thought that it was a mistake to keep you alive, that you would just cause more trouble down the road, but I begged him to as a favor to me. He was happy with the work I had done for him, so I had some pull. And I used it. For you.”

Shock froze Jim’s face. 

“What?” he said.

Was that a hint of horror in his voice? Fear that he had been an ungrateful asshole to taunt Oswald and treat his life as a bargaining chip when Oswald himself had asked for nothing in return? 

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Jim asked.

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“Not relevant?”

Jim stood up and took a few steps away from Oswald, already seeking to distance himself from the truth before facing him again.

“How could this not be relevant?” Jim asked. “You could have told me at the hospital with Falcone. When I walked out on you after rejecting your deal to get my job back. Fuck, after I rejected your invitation to that party. You could have held it over my head. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want to do that. Why would I? I thought, foolish man that I was, that we were friends. And friends don’t owe each other for saving their lives, now do they? They just do it because their friend must live. Because they can’t bear the thought of their friend dying. But don’t worry. I know you’re not my friend now. You only save me to assuage your conscience or to get help with a case. I don’t expect any better from you now.”

He slipped his shoes halfway on his feet and leaned down to fasten them, but the angle hurt his shoulder. He couldn’t manage more than to finish slipping on his shoes with his right hand, his left shoulder twisted away to prevent it from flexing as much as possible.

“Please don’t go,” Jim said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“No. You shouldn’t have. But we’re not friends. So you can treat me however you like.”

He yanked the laces on his right shoe taut with his right hand, but he winced when he brought his left down to tie them.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Jim said.

Oswald ignored him. Jim rushed toward him, crouching down, and Oswald braced himself. Was he going to snatch his shoes away from him? Try to make him stay? Oswald would walk out of here barefoot, if he had to. But Jim didn’t do that. Instead, he grabbed Oswald’s laces and tied them. 

“If you want to leave,” he said, “I’m not going to make you stay. But please don’t go. I’ll do better from now on, I swear.”

“You’re only saying that because you feel bad.”

He didn’t want Jim obligated to him, but, well, he had already taken that measure, hadn’t he? Making Jim collect that debt from Ogden Barker had been the only way to get Jim to at least pretend to treat him with a modicum of respect. 

“I do feel bad,” Jim said. “Of course I do. I fucked up. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to rectify my mistakes.”

He looked sincere. But he couldn’t be, could he? Jim had only ever been sincere about his disdain for him. Yet the guilt in his eyes… It felt real. Such a far cry from the contempt that had glared back at him when Jim had reminded him of his glorious act of charity at the hospital. He shouldn’t give Jim another chance. Look how many he had given him, only to get burned every time. 

“I understand if you don’t want to trust me,” Jim said. Done with the laces, he rested his right hand on Oswald’s foot for a moment before lifting it away. “Like you said, trust has to be earned and I’ve done a piss poor job of that. But you can. If you want.”

Oswald did. He really did. Being in Jim’s apartment, wearing his clothes, sleeping on his bed had been all he had ever yearned for once upon a time. It was still quite high on his wish list. And Jim kneeling at his feet begging him to give him a chance, well, it was quite lovely imagery. 

Oh, fuck it. He was already here and if Jim meant to arrest him, he would have done so already. Not that he could without dooming himself, anyway. Technically, Oswald could still hold Barker’s murder over his head. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll trust you. For now. A trial basis, as it were.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Jim sat back up on the couch, watching Oswald closely without wanting to give the appearance of watching him, which he failed miserably at. Finally succumbing to the chilliness in the room, Oswald grabbed the blanket and tugged it up, jolting Jim, who was sitting on a corner of it.

“I’ll get that,” Jim said, standing up just enough for the blanket to come free.

“I can do it,” Oswald said, pulling it around his shoulders.

“You sure?”

“I’m not completely helpless.”

“Okay.”

Jim raised his hand in surrender. Oswald finished arranging the blanket around his torso as well as he could with his right hand. Jim’s help would have been welcome, but Oswald’s anger hadn’t fully abated yet. They sat for a while, silent. Oswald idly pinched at the blanket, resting his head back, trying not to focus on the pain. How long would Jim let this silence drag on? He was burning with questions. It shocked Oswald that he had been able to contain himself for this long. 

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” Jim asked. 

There it was. The questioning had finally begun.

“With Galavan?” Oswald asked.

“With your mother.”

Oh. 

“Gilzean told me some of it.”

Oswald’s hands clenched into fists at the name, his mouth tightening in fury. He was going to rip Butch’s guts out for helping Galavan kill his mother. His mother had been innocent. She had had nothing to with Oswald’s business. Nothing! She had been kind and sweet and she had even been kind and sweet to Butch. God, he should have kept her away from all this. She should have been safe, but he couldn’t put more security on her because she might notice and there were still times when she looked at him like she knew that Maroni’s vicious words had been the truth and Oswald couldn’t stand it, but living with her disappointment would be a million times better than this, because at least she would still be alive. God, it hurt so much. 

“Oswald?”

A tear ran down Oswald’s cheek. He wiped it off with the heel of his hand, smearing it on his skin. He sucked in a deep breath, struggling to even them out, but another tear came pouring out. He wiped it with the blanket this time, keeping it pressed to his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Did Gilzean tell you how he led me to my mother’s death? How he just stood there and let them kill her?”

“No. He didn’t go into detail. He just said that Galavan kidnapped her to make you do his bidding. That he didn’t think that Galavan would go through with it.”

“Didn’t think—They snatched her from her home and caged her in a cell not fit for a rat. They are monsters. I’m going to kill him for that.”

Jim pressed his lips together, probably unhappy about Oswald professing the need to kill someone else, but he didn’t protest. Oswald’s breath thickened, the knot in his throat painfully tight now. He kept wiping tears from his cheeks, fighting to hold back the sobs, but he couldn’t anymore. He pressed a hand over his eyes as the sobs burst out of him, thick and loud and messy. Jim stood up and Oswald panicked, terrified that Jim would abandon him at a time like this, but Jim sat down at his right side and laid a hand on Oswald’s shoulder, his healthy shoulder. Oh. He resisted the urge for only a second before grabbing Jim’s hand, holding on for as if he would shatter if he let go. Jim let him, not speaking. 

Oswald cried until it felt like there were no more tears left in him, but he knew that to be a lie. The blanket hem was moist. He kept sniffing.

“I’ll get you the tissues,” Jim said, getting up. 

Oswald clutched his hand on instinct, not wanting him to leave, even for a moment. Even then he knew was being stupid, but he couldn’t help himself anymore. 

“I’ll be right back,” Jim said, a sad, concerned gaze in his eyes.

Oswald let his hand slip away, but Jim returned as quickly as he had promised. Three tissues later, Oswald’s breathing returned to normal. Or what had become normal during the last twenty-four hours. 

“Do you want some water?” Jim asked.

“Yes, please.”

Jim got the water. Oswald downed half the glass in one gulp. Jim sat beside him again. Oswald was so fucking happy that he was there.

“I need to ask,” Jim said after a bit. “You said that Galavan had plans for someone that I care about. Who is it?”

“Bruce Wayne.”

Jim frowned.

“Bruce? What does he want with him? Is he involved in the Wayne murders?”

“That second one I don’t know, but given the first one, I definitely wouldn’t rule it out.”

Oswald explained what Edwige had told him about the Dumas-Wayne feud and Galavan’s scheming to take over Wayne Enterprises. Jim listened with increasing concern. He rose quickly from the couch when Oswald finished. 

“I have to call Alfred,” he said, walking towards the kitchen.

It took Oswald a second to make the connection. Alfred Pennyworth, the child’s guardian. 

“It’s not even dawn yet,” Oswald said, peering at the city night through the window on the wall opposite.

“He’ll want to wake up for this.”

A short while later, Jim’s hushed tones carried over to the living room as Jim he spoke on the phone in the kitchen. Oswald listened to the conversation, resting his eyes. Jim mentioned confronting Galavan after the election party, a fact that he had failed to tell Oswald. That was cause for worry. Galavan would surely be gunning for Jim now. He would probably send Barbara after him. She would rattle his cage while lowering his guard enough for him to get caught. A pang of worry twisted in Oswald’s stomach. Last he knew, Barbara loved Jim, but it had been a while since he had bothered to stay informed about her and he had detected no indication one way or another during their brief second meeting. Would she really hurt him? How deeply did her resentment run? 

“I trust him,” Jim said, still on the phone.

Oswald opened his eyes and twisted his head around to the left to try to see Jim in the kitchen. He only caught half his head hidden behind a column of drawers, but the one eye that he could see was looking at him. Oswald backtracked, remembering pieces of the conversation that he had half heard while worrying about Barbara. Jim had spoken of an informant. Oswald himself. Jim had admitted to trusting him to someone else. Oswald’s pain receded in that moment. Only the smallest amount, but it was enough to bring a smile to his lips.

“Alfred’s going to keep Bruce away from him,” Jim said, returning to the living room, closed phone in hand. “I’m going to tell Barnes what I know. See if I can convince him to go after Galavan.”

“You know I won’t testify.”

“I know. And I know that you have other plans for him, but I have to continue doing what I need to do.”

“Yes. I understand.”

He didn’t expect any differently from Jim, despite his earlier outburst. Jim was a man of the law, even though his strict adherence to it had been chipping away since his promotion to detective. The first one, of course. Oswald had never held his principles against him. How could he? He owed his life to them. Jim was a precious diamond who shone brighter than anyone else in this city. But he also had edges as sharp as one, and, well, Oswald could hardly be faulted for wishing that one day those edges would turn in his favor rather than against him. Arresting Galavan might be the only option that Jim could accept right now, but one day he would learn that men like that couldn’t be held down no matter how many prison bars you wrapped around him. He had to die. He must die and die bloody under Oswald’s fingers or he’d never be able to sleep well again. As it stood, sleep felt odious to him, nightmares all that awaited beyond it, only marginally less horrifying than the ones assaulting his waking thoughts.

“He’s going to come after you, too, you know?” Oswald said. 

“I’ll be ready for him.”

“Are you sure? Pardon me for pointing this out, but you can be rather reckless sometimes.”

The man let his emotions rule his actions so often that he was going to get himself killed one of these days out of sheer stupidity, and that was not acceptable. He loved Jim, but even he had to admit that he wasn’t the most sensible of individuals. 

“I’ll be careful,” Jim said. 

Doubtful, but Oswald could hardly make him promise to take better care of himself. Any such promise would be forgotten the instant that Jim smelled the possibility of danger. The man was like a moth thinking that it could rush toward the pretty light without getting its wings singed. A beguiling quality at first, but right now it preyed on Oswald’s nerves, making him wish that Jim would just listen to him for once and not rush stupidly into destruction. 

Jim stifled a yawn behind a raised hand. He looked dead on his feet, had looked so for a while now.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” Oswald asked, suddenly realizing that he couldn’t have had much time to between looking for him and tending to his wound.

“I got a couple of hours,” Jim said, rubbing his forehead. 

“I should let you sleep some more, then.”

Oswald pushed himself to his feet, stopping for a moment as the motion pulled at his shoulder, making him lightheaded. He breathed slowly, breaths shallow. Jim rushed to his side, wrapping his left arm around Oswald’s torso. 

“Let me help you,” he said.

Oswald didn’t protest this time. 

“The bathroom first,” he said instead.

His bladder had been bothering him for a while now, but he hadn’t cared, not while crying and reconciling with Jim. Jim led him to the bathroom, then waited outside the door for him to emerge to help him to the bedroom. He even crouched down to remove Oswald’s shoes while he sat on the bed. How much of this kindness was prompted by guilt? A lot of it, no doubt, yet he had done plenty this night before Oswald had confessed that he had been the one to save him from Falcone. Perhaps trusting him again wouldn’t go wrong. Maybe this time it would be okay between them. He could finally have this one thing even as his heart broke apart. 

Once he was settled on the bed, Jim started to leave, saying, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” and Oswald almost called him back, terrified of being alone with his pain again, but Jim needed to sleep. That was the whole reason why he had returned here. And was Jim supposed to do? Sleep in the bed next to him? Wonderful thought, but Jim would never accept. So he let Jim close the door behind him, comforting himself with the smell of Jim in the sheets wrapped around him.


	2. Chapter 2

He slept. Fitfully and in pieces, yet sunlight finally streamed through the closed curtains one of the many times that he opened his eyes. His phone and wallet sat on the side table, along with a fresh glass of water and a note on a sheet of notebook paper. 

_I have to go to work,_ it read in brusque handwriting. _There’s some food in the fridge from the deli down the street. If you want to call someone to be here with you or to pick you up, that’s fine. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Call me if you need anything. I noticed that your phone was on silent, so I switched the sound back on. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll call you later. I assume that you still have my number, but just in case…_

A familiar ten digit number appeared at the end of the note. Of course Oswald still had it. He had kept it in his phone’s memory, unwilling to let it go in case that Jim granted him the mercy of being civil once again. And he had. Oswald smiled, his chapped lips pulling painfully as he smiled in a dim, all too brief moment of happiness. The digital clock on the table read 9:38. Jim was at work right now. Oswald shouldn’t bother him. He laid the note back on the table, pulled the covers up over his head, and shut his eyes. 

He awoke to the ringing of his phone. 

Jim! 

He threw the covers off and grabbed the phone, but Gabe’s name stared up at him from the caller I. D. instead. Disappointment slumped his belly. He slid back down, flipping the phone open.

“Hello,” he said, his voice sounding like a shadow.

“Boss! Are you okay? We can’t find you anywhere.”

Gabe sounded worried. Genuinely worried. Oh. 

“I’m fine,” Oswald said, gratitude pricking his eyes. He’d always assumed that a good paycheck was what enticed Gabe to stay, but with his empire in tatters and Galavan still alive and mayor, he could hardly provide a living, so Gabe should just leave and find some other employment. Yet he was still here. 

“We heard that you got shot,” Gabe continued.

“I did. In the shoulder. I’m still breathing.”

Even though it hurt like hell.

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I’m perfectly fine where I am. I don’t need anything right now.”

Except for Jim to call. 

“Are you with someone?”

 _You shouldn’t be alone right now_ , Jim had said. But Oswald wanted to be left alone. Except for Jim. Jim could be here. Jim needed to be here, but, of course, he couldn’t this second, and it would be wrong to begrudge his absence when he had already done so much for him. How much longer could Oswald count on Jim’s guilt to make him generous before Jim returned to his senses and realized that harboring a fugitive placed him on the wrong side of that precious law of his? 

The phone beeped against his ear. Call waiting. Oswald looked at the screen. Jim. He was actually calling. 

“I have to go,” Oswald said. “There’s another call.”

“Boss—“

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m done, alright?”

“Okay.”

Oswald quickly switched over to Jim’s call. It was a bit ungrateful of him to hang up on Gabe so suddenly, but what if Jim hung up before he had a chance to answer? He might only be free for a minute and Oswald wouldn’t be able to speak to him until he got home.

“Hello,” he said after switching over.

“Hey,” Jim replied. 

Relief instantly bubbled in Oswald’s belly.

“I just wanted to check on you. See that you’re okay. Well, obviously you’re not okay, but… you know. Have you eaten anything?”

Again with the insistence on food. 

“I’m not hungry.”

Truly. Sated with the forced sandwich from earlier, his appetite had taken a leave of absence. The thought of food didn’t make him cringe or nauseous anymore, but he had no interest in associating with it. 

“It’s noon already. The last time you ate it wasn’t even dawn. You need to eat.”

Oswald rolled his eyes, groaning into the pillow.

“I’ll grab something from the fridge,” he said.

“Thank you. Are you by yourself?”

“Yes, but… I’ll call someone.”

Jim probably wasn’t going to let up about him needing company, and Gabe wouldn’t, either. And he did feel wretchedly weak. Walking all the way to the kitchen, close as it was, wasn’t an appealing prospect. 

“Good,” Jim said. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Okay.”

Jim hung up. Oswald lowered the phone onto the bed and closed his eyes. The clock hanging on the living room wall clicked so loudly that he felt like a woodpecker was striving to tunnel through his skull. Yanking the comforter up to his chin, the phone clutched in his hand, he curled up on his right side.

Harsh moments of emptiness passed before he remembered that had promised to call Gabe. Yes. But picking up the phone and dialing him felt like too much effort to bother with right now. He really didn’t want anyone seeing him like this. And if he could make it to the front door to let Gabe in, then he could certainly get to the fridge to get his own food. But he had promised Jim, as well. And Gabe had been worried. Oswald had so few allies left. He shouldn’t risk alienating any.

He grabbed the phone. _8 missed calls_ , it said. Eight? Gabe had called him that many times? Almost. One of the calls was from Victor. Probably checking to see if his employment was secure. He dialed Gabe, closing his eyes as he brought the phone to his ear. He was so tired. And he had to pee. Oh, swell.

“Boss?” Gabe answered. 

“I’m at Jim’s place,” Oswald said. “He found me and brought me here. He’s at work now and I… I could use some help. No one else. Just you.”

```````````````````

Gabe arrived some time later. Oswald wasn’t minding the clock. Time was irrelevant now. He answered the door wearing a zip up sweatshirt that Jim had left on the desk in his room, one of an assortment of sweaters, as if he hadn’t wanted to impose one particular one on Oswald and wished him to have his pick. Overcompensating for his slight, perhaps, but it lightened Oswald’s heart for a moment.

“Are you okay?” Gabe asked as he stepped inside. He surveyed Oswald with worry in his eyes. 

“No, I’m not okay. But I’ll live.”

Small consolation that this was. He shuffled over to the kitchen. 

“I got a bullet hole in my shoulder,” he continued. “Jim had a doctor treat it. I was unconscious for the whole thing. Now I’m just putting up with the pain.”

While trying not to weep.

He opened the fridge door. Two soup containers sat on the top drawer, the only occupants save for two bottles of beer in the back corner. Clearly, Jim spent most of his time at Lee’s. Hardly surprising. How did he explain his absence last night? Perhaps the late night of bloody work excused it. 

“Let me get that for you,” Gabe said, coming up behind him. “You should sit down. Rest for a bit.”

Resting. Yes. Weakness clawed at his eyes. Not eating for hours on end sapped your strength. Who knew? He went to the counter, where Jim had arranged a couple of high chairs, and sat down, letting Gabe sort out where the plates were and heating the food. He dropped his head into his right hand, trying not to put any pressure on his left shoulder. 

“If I ran to the grocery store,” Gabe said, “I could make you something fresh.”

“This food will be fine. Jim got it this morning.”

There was no need for Oswald to raise his head to know that Gabe was pursing his lips. He disliked that Oswald cut Jim so many breaks, but it was really none of his business why he did. 

One quick microwave ding later and Gabe deposited a steaming bowl of soup in front of Oswald, whose stomach gurgled at the scent of chicken and spices. He really had pushed himself too much this time with the lack of eating. The soup was minestrone. Pretty good. At least eating this time didn’t feel like he was chewing through acid. 

“Are you sure that you can trust Gordon this time?” Gabe asked.

God, Oswald hoped so.

“Yes,” he said. “We sorted things out. And he hasn’t arrested me, so… Good sign.”

“What happened at the party?”

Oh. That.

“It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t kill Galavan. His sister shot me and now everything has gone to shit. That’s all. All that matters.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“No. No plan. For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no plan. Killing Galavan would be nice. Butch, too, but that keeps not happening. Jim wants to arrest Galavan, which is quite inconvenient. And I am too tired and injured to do a damn thing about it one way or another right now, anyway.”

“We could kill him for you.”

“No.”

“Boss—“

“Tell Victor to stand by,” Oswald said. “I’ll come up with a plan later.”

Had Oswald not been in a rotten state, he would have returned Victor’s call already, but business was the last thing in his mind right now. 

“Sure thing, boss.”

Oswald finished his soup, then retreated back to the couch and watched a Seinfeld marathon with Gabe, the comedic scenarios providing a momentary distraction from his pain. The hours eroded away. 

2:00. 

3:00. 

4:00. 

5:00. 

He slept for pieces of it. Ate what Gabe put in front of him. Cried in the bathroom with the shower running so that Gabe wouldn’t hear. Checked his phone every half hour in case he had missed a call from Jim. But there were no missed calls. Not even one. And, as 8:00 rolled around with no call and no Jim at the door, worry ate at his stomach, gnawing through his already strained nerves. He called Jim, but got no answer. He tried again at 8:15. Still no answer. 

“You want us to find him for you?” Gabe asked.

“No. He’s probably just busy. A late night, no doubt.”

Not being attacked by Galavan or anything. Maybe he should call his work phone. What if Jim’s phone had run out of battery and he was busy doing paperwork, but he didn’t remember Oswald’s number, so he couldn’t call him to let him know? There was a landline in the apartment, but no dial tone when he picked up the phone. Jim might have disconnected the service, since it looked like he spent so little time here. Calling the station wasn’t a bad idea. He went into Jim’s profile on his phone to look for his work number when his phone rang, Jim’s name flashing across the screen. 

Oh thank God.

“Jim,” he answered, relief sweeping through his body like a cozy blanket straight out of the dryer. 

“Hey,” Jim said. “Sorry I didn’t answer before. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Now. “I was just wondering if you were. It was getting late. Not that I know at what time you usually come home. Maybe this is normal.”

“It’s not, but… It’s been hectic today. You’re probably not going to like this, but we just arrested Galavan.” 

Oswald’s fingers weakened, nearly dropping the phone. His mouth gaped, words drying up on his tongue, a fury of conflicted emotions straining against his sternum.

“You what?” he said, voice wobbly.

“Look, I know that this interferes with your plans, but it’s what I had to do. It’s my job.”

“Right. No. I get that.”

And it wasn’t like Oswald was up to killing Galavan right now. Although he could have sent Victor after him and then, at least, he would be dead. Victor had failed to kill Butch, but Jim had interfered with that, too. And there were ways to get to Galavan in prison. 

“I’ll explain everything when I get home, okay?” Jim said. 

“Okay.” 

“I’ve got to do the paperwork. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Jim ended the call. Oswald lowered the phone, staring blankly at the silent images on the TV screen. 

“What happened?” Gabe asked.

“Jim arrested Galavan.”

“We can put a hit on him in prison.”

“I know that. Just… Not now. I can’t do this right now.”

Jim wouldn’t appreciate him killing the man he had just arrested. As if this wasn’t complicated enough already. And he didn’t have ready access to funds to set this up at this moment, in any case. He needed to wait and hear what had happened.

Jim arrived an hour later, bleary eyes dull with exhaustion. Oswald jumped up from the couch when he came through the door. Well, jumped was a bit of an exaggeration. He jerked up, which hurt his shoulder, which, in turn, prompted Gabe to help him up. 

“Please,” Jim said as he stepped into the living room. “You don’t have to get up.”

He grimaced as he removed his jacket, rubbing the back of his neck, and nodded at Gabe.

“Good evening. I take it that you spent the day with him.”

“I did,” Gabe said. “You did a good job patching him up.”

“Thanks, but the doctor did most of that.”

Yes, yes, yes. Could they leave the pleasantries for later? There were far more important things to discuss right now.

“What happened?” Oswald asked. 

_Did Galavan attack you? Why are you rubbing your neck? Are you injured?_

All these questions flew to Oswald’s tongue, but spewing them out would make him sound overtly worried, which of course he was, but they had only gone back to being friends that morning and he didn’t want to spook Jim. 

“You were right about Galavan coming after me,” Jim said. “He sent Barbara to the precinct.”

“What?”

“She played the usual mind games. Told me that Mayor James was stashed in a warehouse in China Docks, so we picked him up and after he accused Galavan, we had enough to arrest him for kidnapping and torture.”

Jim took off his tie as he said this, looking away. His face was closed off, but Jim couldn’t dissemble if his life depended on it. His mouth was tight, eyes hard and hurt, shoulders slumped with more than physical fatigue.

“So you arrested Barbara?” Oswald asked.

“We have her in custody.”

Jim strode toward the bedroom.

“If you had simply arrested her, you would have just said yes,” Oswald said, following him. “Why the specificity?”

“We did arrest her.”

Jim hung up his jacket in the closet.

“And?”

“And it got complicated.”

“Jim, it would be a lot easier if you just told me. I can see that you’re injured and Galavan’s play couldn’t have been for Barbara to just pop by the precinct for a visit.”

“No.” Jim turned around, finally meeting Oswald’s gaze since he first walked into the apartment. “It wasn’t. You’re right. She lured me into a trap. She coaxed me out of the station into an ambush and kidnapped Lee and me and now Barbara has half a dozen broken bones and I don’t know if she’s going to make it. I’m not sure if I want her to.”

Jim stopped. He turned away. His tie was clutched in his right hand, the fabric pummeled into a tight fist. 

“Look,” he said. “I’m dead on my feet. Can we continue this in the morning?”

The ball of worry wadded up in Oswald’s stomach insisted that they continue this now, but, after that last revelation, Jim was likely to just clam up and refuse to speak further. And he really did need sleep. How much rest had he gotten last night? Four, maybe five hours? 

“Alright, then,” Oswald said. “But I do expect you to wake me up this time.”

“I know how hard it is to fall asleep for you right now. I didn’t want to bother you just for a couple of minutes.”

“I appreciate that. I do. And I know that you have to leave early.”

“I didn’t mean for it to look like I had snuck out on you.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“How have you been today? I should have asked earlier.”

“I’ve been better.”

“Of course. Did you eat, at least?”

Oswald rolled his eyes.

“Yes. I ate. Did you?”

“I ate at the station.” 

Jim grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the closet. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, moving past Oswald. 

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” he heard Jim tell Gabe.

“As long as Mr. Cobblepot wants me here.”

Oswald left the bedroom just in time to see Jim close the bathroom door. Well. Galavan was in jail out of reach, Jim’s psychotic ex-fiancé had likely tried to kill him, and Jim didn’t want to talk. Brilliant. 

“You want me to leave now that Gordon’s here?” Gabe asked.

“If you would, please. Jim needs the couch to sleep.”

Oswald had considered taking the couch himself as the guest, but he had tried to lie on it on his back earlier, and his shoulder had virulently protested the arrangement. 

“And thank you for your attention today,” Oswald continued. “It is appreciated.”

Gabe looked surprised by the admission. Perhaps Oswald had been a bit lax in expressing his appreciation in past times, but it would go ill for him to be ungrateful now that he had such few friends to support him. 

“You’re welcome, boss,” Gabe said before heading to the front door. 

Well. Nothing to do now but go to bed and hope that he wouldn’t have nightmares. And that Jim really did speak to him in the morning. 

```````````````  
A firm knocking on the door woke him up. He scrunched his eyes open, wincing at the too bright sunlight streaming through the window, sleep clinging to every cell of his body as he called out,

“Come in.”

Jim opened the door and stepped inside. 

“Hey,” he said, regarding Oswald with concern. “Sorry to wake you, but you did ask me to.”

Yes. Why had Oswald requested such a thing? He’d be perfectly pleased sleeping for a month. 

“I can get us breakfast from the bagel place around the corner,” Jim said as he rummaged in the closet. “They’re open now.”

Oswald never ate right after getting up, but pointing this out would only get him another lecture about the importance of feeding himself.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing the dried tears out of his eyes. 

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

Jim left with a change of clothes from the closet. A moment later, he rushed back into the room. 

“Do you want some water or something?” he asked.

“No. That’s fine. You go.”

“Okay.”

Jim left again. Soon, he heard the apartment door close. Oswald stared at the ceiling. The wall clock ticked away, hammering at the silence. 

His bladder let him know that it was awake and full. Might as well go to the bathroom. His shoulder hurt less when he moved it this time. Not by much, but the slight increment helped. As he washed his hands, he caught his face in the mirror. His eyes, always bagged and wan, gazed back at him with a hollow stare, their edges red. His skin looked sallow in the tungsten light, his hair a thorny mess. Nothing new. He looked away. He didn’t need his own pain staring back at him like a vengeful wraith. 

Jim returned a short while later. Oswald had managed to settle himself on the couch, the TV remote clutched in his hands, yet he hadn’t mustered the interest to switch on the TV set. There were some books on the shelves, but they were mostly sports related and Oswald had no interest in that. He turned the remote over on his fingers, staring at the buttons, reading the different functions of each, half of which probably only the manufacturers knew about. 

“I forgot to ask you what you liked,” Jim said, dropping a paper bag on the table, along with two coffee cups. Coffee on the coffee table. How fitting. “I got one bacon and egg and one sausage and egg. I’ll take whichever one you don’t want.”

“I take it one of those coffees is for me,” Oswald said.

“Yes. I didn’t ask you about that, either.” Jim frowned. “Do you like coffee?”

“Actually, no.”

“Oh.” Jim’s face fell. “Shit. I really should have asked.”

“It’s fine.” Oswald waved his hand. “Most people like it. It was the safest thing to assume.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t help if the assumption is wrong. I should have gotten you something else to drink.”

“Water will be fine.”

“Do you like tea? I have tea bags in the pantry.”

“Yes. Tea would be great.”

Jim went to get the tea. Oswald opened the bag and took out the wrapped sandwiches. One said “sausage” and the other “bacon” in black marker. He placed the bacon back on the table and unwrapped the sausage sandwich, but he didn’t bite into it yet. It would be rude to start eating before Jim got back. Besides, he wasn’t even hungry. 

“Do you mind if I heat it up in the microwave?” Jim called from the kitchen. “I don’t have time to wait for the stove.”

“That’s fine,” Oswald said. 

He sat, sandwich in his hand, waiting for Jim to get back. He grew inpatient to learn what had transpired yesterday between Jim and Barbara, and how exactly he had allowed himself to be lured into an ambush. It was so very like Jim to be careless, especially when he got emotional. A promise to be careful from him meant as much as snow promising not to be cold. 

“Here you go,” Jim said a while later, arriving with a hot mug with a tea bag string sticking out of it. 

He placed it on the table and sat down next to Oswald.

“Sausage, huh?” he said, glancing at the sandwich in Oswald’s hand as he grabbed the other one.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Oswald said.

“Of course not. You didn’t have to wait for me to start eating, either.”

Jim took a bite from his sandwich. Oswald raised his, but he just stared at it.

“Unless you don’t want to eat,” Jim said. “Again.”

“Grief has the unfortunate tendency of vanishing one’s appetite.”

Jim’s chewing slowed.

“I remember,” he said. 

His father. How old had Jim been when that happened? Oswald had never found that out. 

“That whole first day, I couldn’t eat a thing,” Jim continued. “Then the second day, I stuffed my face so much that I wanted to puke. Not even with real food. With pie and cookies and whatever other sweet I could get my hands on to distract me, even for a second.”

“And you criticize my eating habits.”

“I didn’t have a bullet wound that needed healing.”

Oswald couldn’t argue against that. Before he got a repeat of Jim’s earlier scolding, he raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a bite. It was good. Still not welcome, but it might distract his grief for a bit. Yet Jim might be using it as distraction from another matter.

“Would you care to elaborate on what happened yesterday?” Oswald asked. 

Jim didn’t reply right away.

“I pretty much covered it yesterday.”

Right. Maybe Oswald shouldn’t press about Barbara. Jim’s personal life wasn’t any of his business, after all. But Galavan was. 

“Do you have enough to convict Galavan?” he asked.

“We will by the time I’m through with him.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Are you hoping that I don’t so that you can kill him? It’s not like you can’t get to him in prison.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Jim frowned at him, pausing mid-chew.

“Why not?”

“I suspect that you might interpret it as being disrespectful to you if I kill him after all your hard work.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be happy about it.” 

“Of course not.”

“Though I’m surprised that you wouldn’t just kill him, anyway.”

Killing Galavan in prison wasn’t worth risking Jim’s friendship. He couldn’t let that vomitus mass take away the only loved one that he had left. 

“I’m tired of you being cranky with me,” Oswald said. “It’s that simple.”

Finishing his sandwich, he crumbled up the wrapper into a ball and tossed it on the table. 

“But if he gets out,” Oswald continued, “I will hunt him down.”

“If.”

“This is Gotham. And Galavan is pulling some seriously powerful strings.”

“How powerful?”

“I would love to tell you, but he didn’t illuminate me about every aspect of his operation. He kept me on a strictly need to know basis.”

“So are we making a deal here? If I get him put away, you leave him alone, but if he gets off, you kill him?”

“You can look at it that way, if you wish.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“Really? You’re alright with that?”

“I’m not going to let him away. But I would rather it not be plan A.”

Jim was finally seeing sense. What had Barbara done to him to make him approve, even grudgingly, of such a lethal end? 

“I’ve got to go,” Jim said, gathering the sandwich wrappings into the paper bag. “I have a stop to make before work.”

“Would that be the hospital?”

Jim paused for a second before getting up, his eyes hardening.

“She’s in custody. I need to verify what her status is.”

He strode to the kitchen to throw away the bag.

“Is that all it is?” Oswald said.

“Oswald, I don’t want to talk about this.”

Interesting how Jim used his name whenever he really wanted him to do something. 

“I’m not going to insist that you do. But you’ve seen me grieve for my mother. We’re a little past having to slip on a poker face before each other.”

Jim stood beside the trash can for a long while, his stiff back to Oswald, hands firmly on his hips.

“Alright,” he said, tension tight around every syllable. “That’s not the only reason why I’m going. But that’s still all I’m saying about it.”

`````````````

Oswald called Gabe again. Jim insisted that he have a nursemaid despite the fact that he could take care of himself and didn’t want company right now. Jim probably just wanted to make sure that someone would make him eat. And Oswald did need to get his bandages changed. Jim didn’t have time to do it and Oswald certainly couldn’t do it himself, so he acquiesced to call Gabe at noon, telling him to bring over some food. He had finished off what remained of yesterday’s soup (without any prompting, thank you very much). Gabe came over, changed his bandages, and watched TV while Oswald took a nap. 

The phone woke him around 2pm. He had kept it close by in case Jim called, but it wasn’t Jim calling. It was Victor. 

“Victor,” he answered. “What a pleasant surprise. I trust that this is important.”

“Someone ordered a hit on Detective Gordon,” Victor said.

Oswald jerked upright, wincing at the sharp pain screaming in his shoulder.

“Who?” he asked, fury burning in his throat.

“I haven’t acquired that information yet, but given the timing—“

“Galavan. It has to be. Or that sister of his. Who did they send?”

“They contacted the club on Cicero.”

Fuck. The club hired some of the best assassins in the city. Victor had worked with them for a time when he was starting out before he had moved on to greener pastures. 

“Find whoever they sent,” Oswald said, “and kill them. I don’t care if you have to start a new tally on your head. Kill them all.”

“Will do.”

Oswald hung up and immediately called Jim. Four rings sent it to voicemail. He ended the call and tried again. And again. On the fifth try, Jim finally deigned to answer the phone.

“I can’t talk right now,” Jim said, tone clipped.

“There are assassins coming after you.”

“I noticed. One tried to kill me in the elevator.”

What?!

“Wait,” Jim continued. “Assassins plural? How many are they?”

“As many as it will take to kill you. Where are you?”

“Galavan’s apartment.”

“Leave and get back to the precinct.”

Not that anybody thought much about shooting up the place, but at least Jim would have plenty of backup while Victor eliminated the assassins. 

“I’m not leaving,” Jim said. “I need to gather more evidence against Galavan.”

For fuck’s sake!

“You can pursue your case later. You should be more concerned about the people trying to kill you right now. I’ve sent Victor after them, but there might be stragglers.”

“I don’t need his help,” Jim said, sounding indignant. “I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m not alone.”

“Who else is with you?”

“Barnes.”

“And?”

“A patrolwoman and a forensics guy,” Jim finished grudgingly.

“Well, that fills me with confidence. I’m not recalling Victor.”

“And I’m not leaving.”

“Jim! I know that stubbornness is one of your most salient qualities, but this is really not the time.”

“I’m not backing down from a fight.”

Of course not. That would only be the sensible thing to do. 

“Besides,” Jim continued, “if Zsasz kills them all, then I won’t have anything to worry about.”

“Fine, then. Do as you please. But if they do kill you, I’m going to break our bargain and murder Galavan with my own hands, conviction or not.”

“Did he send them?”

“Unknown, but who else would it be?”

“Right. Well, I can’t complain about you killing him if I’m dead. I’ll call you when this is over.”

“Call me if someone else tries to kill you.”

“Okay.”

They hung up and Oswald collapsed back on the bed, fear chomping at every cell in his body. Jim would probably be okay. He had a knack for survival, and Victor should eliminate whoever was coming for him, but there was always that small percentage of possibility of death. The pain in Oswald’s shoulder had spiked since Victor’s call, his worry worsening the agony erupting in his muscle tissue. He grabbed the bottle of painkillers from the side table and popped two of them into his mouth, swallowing them with saliva alone since the water glass on the table was dry, but he didn’t want to call Gabe. He was too agitated. He wanted to be alone in his worry for the only other person he had left.  
Two hours passed by. Victor texted that he had killed most of the assassins, but some had slipped away. Oswald called Jim. No reply. Three minutes later, he got a text saying, “I’m fine. Killed three more.” Another hour passed by. And another. Gabe kept pushing him to eat, but his stomach was too knotted up. Oswald called again. No reply. He called again, hanging up and retrying the call every time that it went to voicemail. 

“I’m alive, alright?” Jim finally answered.

“Fuck, Jim,” Oswald said, sagging on the couch that Gabe had coaxed him onto. “How am I supposed to know that if you don’t answer the phone?”

“I was busy trying not to get killed.”

Shit.

“I got the impression that he’s the last one,” Jim continued. “He was very grandiose about it.”

“I’ll check with Victor to make sure.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to go. I have to deal with this clusterfuck.”

“Okay. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“I’ll probably be late. Actually, I…”

Jim trailed off.

“What is it?” Oswald asked.

“Nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

As soon as he could turned out to be after midnight. Oswald had already sent Gabe home because he couldn’t stand his concerned hovering anymore. He had been stewing on the couch, unsuccessfully distracting himself with some forgettable sitcom on TV when the lock on the front door finally clicked open. Oswald jumped up and rushed up to Jim, who looked like he had been beaten raw and spit out through a meat grinder. His shoulders were slumped, he favored his right leg, and his face was solemn and bordering on a grimace. There were only a few cuts on his face, but perhaps there was more under his clothing that Oswald couldn’t see.

“Well,” Oswald said, smiling in relief. “Made it in one piece, I see. I’m glad.”

So deeply, phenomenally glad. Of course, he already knew that Jim was alive due to the phone call, but actually seeing Jim breathing before him made his heart race and his skin itch with the need to rush over and touch him, to confirm his aliveness through his own hands, to palpably know that he had not just lost the only other person that he loved. 

But a full display of Oswald’s happiness at seeing Jim alive and kicking would probably freak him out, so he tempered his emotions as best as he could, even tucking his hands behind his back to control the urge to reach out and hug Jim. But Jim himself didn’t seem happy about being alive. 

“I guess that’s something,” he said, voice sullen, then moved past Oswald toward the bedroom. 

Oswald followed, frowning. Jim’s bitterness was understandable, of course. Being shot at never made anyone happy, but Jim was a special case. He relished the violence. He would be tired, afterward, sure, but this went beyond simple muscle weariness. Probably some of his co-workers had died. Loyal man that he was, this would bother him. And the assassins being there to kill him only worsened the blow. 

“Are you injured?” Oswald asked.

“No.”

Jim opened the closet door and took off his jacket, dropping it in the hamper.

“How about those cuts? Have you cleaned them?”

Jim slipped off his tie. He stared at it, mouth tightening, before dropping it on top of the jacket. 

“Yeah,” he answered.

Not in a talkative mood. Okay then.

“Well, there’s plenty of Thai leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry. I expect you would be after the day you’ve had. I’m always famished.”

“Are you making sure that I eat now?” Jim said, meeting Oswald’s eyes for the first time since he had walked through the door.

A hollowness haunted his eyes. Oswald didn’t like it one bit. But he smiled, filing the image for later. Now was not the time. 

“Payback’s a bitch,” he said.

That dragged a smile out of Jim. It was tiny, here and gone in the flicker of a second, but it was something.

“I’ll eat something after I shower,” Jim said. “You can go to bed if you want. I know you’re been waiting, but I need to be alone for a bit.”

Oswald nodded, swallowing his disappointment.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

Jim left with his change of clothes and Oswald went to bed like he suggested, but he couldn’t sleep. He listened to Jim shower, the ding of the microwave when the food was done heating up, and the clink of a fork on a ceramic plate. He stayed awake long after the light under the door finally went out, fretting about what had happened today that had shaken up Jim this much. 

```````

For the first time in his stay, Oswald woke before Jim. When he got up to go to the bathroom, he found Jim curled up on the sofa, knees bent high under the blanket to accommodate his longer frame. His face was smooshed into the pillow, which, in turn, barely fit by the armrest, pressing his neck at an awkward angle. Surely he couldn’t be comfortable like that. Jim would be much better off on the bed. Perhaps Oswald should broach the subject. There was plenty of space for them both. He could already hear Jim’s refusal in his head, but Oswald wasn’t going to let Jim be put out in his own home. 

Jim was still asleep when he exited the bathroom. About half an hour later, he heard Jim get up and close the bathroom door. Oswald waited a couple of minutes after Jim had exited to come out himself, empty glass of water in hand to give him an excuse to go to the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” he said to Jim, who was sitting back on the couch, whole body slouched back against the cushions, as if attempting to sink into them. His eyelids hung heavily over his eyes, unbrushed hair a sad complement to his weary expression.

“Morning,” Jim said, glancing up at Oswald. “You seem better.”

“Well, not really.” _I’m just so happy to see you._ “It comes and goes.”

Jim nodded. 

“I get how that is.”

“I must confess,” Oswald said, moving to the kitchen. “I didn’t expect assassination attempts to shake you this much.”

Jim practically lived for violence, after all.

“It wasn’t that. Other things happened.”

Glass refilled, Oswald returned to the living room. 

“May I ask what these other things are?”

Jim didn’t answer. He stared at the empty space in front of him, lips pressed in a grim line for so long that Oswald was about to say “never mind” before he finally answered. 

“Lee left me.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jim nodded.

“Thanks.”

“Well,” Oswald said when Jim didn’t speak further. “I can see why you wanted to be alone last night.”

More silence. 

“I’ll leave you be,” Oswald said apologetically, starting back towards the bedroom. 

“You didn’t want to be alone,” Jim said after Oswald had taken a few steps.

He turned back around.

“What?” he asked. 

“Last night.”

Raw ache burned in Jim’s eyes as he met Oswald’s eyes. The glass suddenly felt heavy in Oswald’s hand. The pained fear from last night rushed into him, a tsunami of shattered nerves. 

“No,” he said. “I didn’t. I spent the whole day worried about you. Not that you can’t take care of yourself. I know you can. Although Victor did help clear the field for you, after all. You can’t say that it didn’t help.”

“I’m sure it did. We couldn’t have handled any more. Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t stick around last night.”

Oswald waved the apology away.

“Please. I understand. I wouldn’t begrudge you your need for space after what happened. Don’t worry yourself over me.”

“I can’t help it.”

Oswald’s breath stuck in his throat. What had Jim just said?

“I’ve got the day off,” Jim continued, “so I’ll stick around this time. I need to get some groceries, but I can do that later.”

It took a couple of seconds for Oswald to get his jaw to move.

“I did notice the distinct lack of non-takeout food in the fridge.”

“I didn’t spend much time here. Are you hungry? I can get us some bagels again.”

“Not just yet. But yes, that would be fine. If you’re hungry now, feel free.”

“No, I can wait a little longer. I’m not really in the mood to eat.”

Oswald drank from his glass. Funny how one’s throat could go dry so quickly after a shock.

“Have you heard of Eduardo Flamingo?” Jim asked.

So Jim had to contend with him, too. He had been kicked out of the club for being too perverse even for their liking, but after hemorrhaging so many assassins, the Lady would have gotten desperate. 

“I have. Did he come after you?”

“Yes. He was the last one. I uh… I arrested him.”

Typical Jim. A vicious murderer tried to put a bullet in his brain and Jim decided that he deserved to live. 

“No need to apologize to me, Jim,” Oswald said, going to sit on the couch beside him. “I don’t care whether he lives or dies.”

“I’m not apologizing to you.”

An odd emphasis weighed over the word “you”. 

“Is there someone you should apologize to?” Oswald asked. 

Jim’s right hand, formerly lying loosely on his lap, now clenched into a hard fist.

“Flamingo killed the cop who was booking him. If I had killed him when I had the chance, she would still be alive. She was just a kid.”

Oh. Of course, Jim should have killed him. Flamingo was hardly a pleasant fellow. But rubbing Jim’s face into his mistake would not be the best thing right now.

“You followed your principles,” Oswald said. “That’s all.”

“Even if the consequences show that it was the wrong thing to do?” Jim’s eyes burned with self-directed fury. “I had my gun on him. I could have pulled the trigger. I wanted to. It scared me how much. He killed four cops just to get to me. Just for fun. I know you’re probably thinking that I should have killed him. It’s what you would have done, isn’t it?”

“I would be lying if I said that I don’t think it the sensible thing to do. But you operate by different rules.”

“Which you want me to break so you can kill Galavan.”

“I’m not asking you to kill him. Just to step aside.”

“That would make me an accomplice to murder. Just like this. I could have put down a dangerous murderer. I didn’t.”

Oswald couldn’t believe that he had to be the one to tell Jim not to feel bad for following police protocol.

“Jim, you’re a cop. If you killed every murderer you were supposed to arrest, they would lock you up. You can’t beat yourself up for what your prisoners do afterward. It’s counterproductive.”

Jim frowned, confusion clouding his eyes. 

“You’re actually telling me that? I would have thought that you would want me to consider this a lesson learned.”

“I’m trying to comfort you. Saying that you were wrong is hardly comforting, now is it? In any case, my morality is irrelevant right now.”

“You have a morality?”

Oswald fixed a sharp stare on Jim. 

“I’m not the monster you think me, Jim. I do have a conscience. It may not be as active as yours. Business is business, after all. But it’s there. I do care. That much you should have noticed.”

Jim lowered his head.

“I have.”

He didn’t speak further. After a bit, Oswald went to the kitchen and grabbed the stack of delivery menus that Gabe had brought him yesterday. He held them out to Jim, who frowned at them, then at Oswald.

“I don’t want to eat yet,” he said.

“Well, I do. And I need to eat, remember?”

Suppressing a sigh, Jim took the menus and started leafing through them. 

```````  
They ate their delivered breakfast sandwiches in front of the TV while watching a documentary on Bengal tigers. After a while of that, Oswald declared that he was tired of watching television, which did nothing to distract him anymore, so Jim dug out a pack of cards from his closet and they played a few rounds of poker on the small dining table by the front window next to the kitchen. With no money involved, of course. Oswald didn’t want to fleece his host, which he would have done since Jim had the worst poker face he had ever seen. Rather, he didn’t have one. Every micro expression of disappointment or elation at his own hand flashed in his eyes. Oswald hoped that he never gambled, for he could lose his entire living in a single night. 

“You know,” Oswald said after winning the sixth hand in a row, to Jim’s growing frustration. “There are other card games that we could play.”

“Why?” Jim asked, dealing out his frustration onto the deck, shuffling it with unnecessary sternness. “Are you afraid that I’ll beat you in the next round?”

“I think that we both know that is highly unlikely.”

Jim shot him a sharp glance. 

“You can’t win every hand,” he said. 

Oswald sighed. Or course he would, and lackluster winnings did nothing to alleviate the now familiar curdling in his stomach. 

“In any case,” he said, “I propose a change of pace. There are other card games. How about Rummy? Or King’s Corners?”

“I’ve heard of Rummy. I’ve never played it, though.”

“I can teach you. It’s—“ Oswald’s throat tightened. “It was one of my mother’s favorites.”

Well. That had been harder to say than he’d thought.

Jim’s eyes softened. He set the deck down on the table and said,

“Okay. Teach me.”

Smiling gratefully, Oswald picked up the deck and cleared his throat.

“We each get ten cards,” and started to deal.

He explained the intricacies of the game as they went along, answering each of Jim’s questions as patiently as his mother had been with him when she had first taught him at ten years old. Every card he played awakened the memory of her gentle words, as alive now as all those years ago, and he had to relax his breathing to keep his voice from cracking and his eyes from tearing up. At one point, it became so obvious that Jim asked him if he was okay and wanted to stop, but Oswald shook his head. He wanted to keep playing. He needed to. His mother wouldn’t wish him to lose his enjoyment of their favorite game. So they played on. Jim even won a hand. Oswald smiled, a watery, precarious thing. It felt so strange to smile anymore. 

“Thank you for playing with me,” Oswald said.

Jim smiled. Not a big smile, but a real one. 

“You’re welcome.”

`````````````````

The rest of the day trudged along. Neither of them were in a cheery mood, after all. Jim left to buy some groceries later in the afternoon. He warned Oswald that he might take a while, and he did. Over two hours passed by before he returned, which Oswald spent lying in bed trying to nap. He shook off Jim’s absence as best he could. Jim had probably wanted some time to himself. Oswald had invaded his home, after all. Jim should be able to escape if he needed to. He also decided not to inquire further about Barbara or what occurred last night. Jim’s personal life was none of his business, after all. He shouldn’t insist on knowing these things. However, one thing that he would insist on was Jim being comfortable in his own home. 

“You can share the bed with me,” he said after he brushed his teeth that night. “It’s your bed, after all.”

“Um,” Jim uttered, an uncertain frown wrinkling his brow. “I’m not sure if I should. I don’t want to accidentally jar your shoulder in the middle of the night.”

“My shoulder will be fine. There’s more than enough room in the bed for us to be spread out. Your own shoulders need a proper rest. You’ve been rubbing your neck all day.”

“I don’t know.”

Crossing his arms, Jim glanced at the blanket lying clumped on one side of the couch. Oswald resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, was the thought of sharing a bed with him so unpleasant? Surely Jim knew better than to go into a gay panic. 

“You need a proper rest,” Oswald said. “You barely fit in this thing.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

Oswald shook his head, suppressing a sigh as he returned to the bedroom.

“Fine. But please, feel free to come sleep on the bed whenever you want.”

Jim didn’t show up to sleep beside him. Oswald hadn’t been expecting him to. Not much, anyway. Maybe he had harbored a bit of hope. The next night, Oswald offered again and Jim promised to consider it. On the third day, Jim returned to work. Perhaps the early wakeup call would make him rethink his need for a good night’s sleep, yet, at 10 o’ clock, he once again grabbed his blanket and folded himself up on the couch. Oswald didn’t bother saying anything. 

Then he had a nightmare. Hardly a rare occurrence. He had suffered through many since his mother had been kidnapped, some even on this very bed, but none of these had prompted Jim to open the door and shake him awake. Oswald opened his eyes, gasping, and grabbed the hand on his shoulder, instantly in fight mode, but his rapid breathing calmed when he heard Jim say a soft, 

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s me.”

Oswald’s shaking limps stilled and he collapsed on the pillow. His skin felt cold, ghastly images still scalding his eyelids. He gripped Jim’s hand, then reluctantly let it go.

“Thanks,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment.

Jim lifted his hand. Oswald missed the pressure of it.

“Do you want me to sleep here?” Jim said. “For company?”

Oswald exhaled sharply.

“Jim, it’s your bed. I want you to be able to sleep in your own bed. You’re not comfortable on the couch. I’ll go to the damn couch if you find sleeping next to me so unpleasant—“

He started getting up, but Jim pushed him back down.

“That’s not why—“

Jim cut himself off. The city light filtering through the window was too dim for Oswald to see his face.

“Stay there,” he said, and left the room. A moment later, he returned, closed the door, and slid into the bed next to him, pulling his own blanket over himself, his back to Oswald. Oswald stared at the dark lump of his body bending down the mattress, making Oswald lean slightly to the left. But Jim didn’t say anything else and Oswald wasn’t going to mess this up by opening his mouth now. Although, if he’d known that all he had to do was rant, he would have done so three nights ago. He settled back on the bed on his back, hands tucked on his stomach, yet, every few seconds, he turned his head to stare at Jim. Not too often. Jim might notice. But he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t awakened into another dream. This was actually happening. The outline of Jim’s shoulder was barely visible in the dim light. The edge of his fleece blanket touched Oswald’s left hand, the barest brush of softness. The crisp scent of soap permeated the air. Jim had showered shortly before going to bed. Oswald’s left leg itched, but he didn’t want to disturb Jim by moving. 

Slowly, Jim’s breathing evened out, a low rumble, not quite a snore. Jim didn’t snore, did he? Oswald had never shared a bed with anyone other than his mother before and the last time had been when he was a child. Would he be able to sleep through Jim snoring? Why hadn’t he considered this before he offered the bed? Not that he would kick him out now. Of course not. Jim needed the bed and Oswald did not want him to leave. Besides, he wasn’t even snoring. Just breathing loudly. Next to him. Despite whatever reservations he had, Jim finally trusted him enough to sleep next to him, to let himself be completely vulnerable with the knowledge that Oswald wouldn’t hurt him. 

An awed grin stretched across Oswald’s lips until his cheeks hurt from smiling. Jim trusted him. He truly trusted him. 

He couldn’t sleep for an hour from excitement.

`````````````  
Jim woke up before him the next day. He didn’t mention anything about them sharing a bed, so Oswald didn’t either. But that night, before Oswald even considered mentioning it, Jim lied down on the same side of the bed and said, “good night” before turning his back again and closing his eyes. Oswald slid in beside him, happiness seeping through him.

`````````````

_Three days later_

Officer Parks funeral was today. Jim had been tense all morning, face tight and unsmiling, hands gripping his cup of coffee too tightly, even more taciturn than usual as they sat down to breakfast in what had become their morning routine. He didn’t even speak as he got dressed in his formal uniform, guilt pouring off of him with every button he pushed through its buttonhole and every sharp lacing of his shoes. They had already spoken about that night, so there was no need to repeat themselves. Oswald wished that Jim wouldn’t beat himself so, but he wouldn’t be Jim if he didn’t. 

He returned late, his clothes soaked through with the rain and a bitter expression on his face. After greeting Oswald with a short nod, he dove into the bottom cabinet in the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of vodka, which he poured into a short glass.

“You were right,” he said after downing the drink.

“About?” Oswald asked, sitting at the counter. 

“Killing Flamingo was the sensible thing to do. I should have done it. Parks would be alive if I had. And who knows who else he might kill after this. I can’t stick to my old rules. Not anymore.”

Well. That was quite a change of tune. Oswald wasn’t inclined to argue. His contrary words a few days ago had been spoken to comfort Jim, but reality had a way of ripping away one’s blinders. 

“You may be right about Galavan, too,” Jim said.

Oswald’s gut clenched, his scrambled eggs souring in his mouth. 

“Aubrey James is supposed to testify against him tomorrow,” Jim continued, “but something is off. I went to see Galavan today and he looked too sure of himself. Cocky. Like he didn’t have to worry about a damn thing.”

Jim poured another glass, but as he brought it up to his mouth, Oswald grabbed it from his hand and downed it himself, the bitterness of the alcohol inflaming the anger burning in his belly.

“He’s going to get off,” he said, clutching the glass so hard that his fingers hurt. “I told you he’s powerful. Wriggling free from a kidnapping charge is probably nothing to him. He snatched up James easy as you please. What do you want to bet that he got him to reverse his testimony?”

Jim’s mouth tightened. 

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” he said. 

“Exactly.”

Jim took the glass back and poured himself a couple of fingers of liquor before guzzling it all.

“I’m guessing those wheels in your head are already turning.”

“We did make a deal.”

“That we did.”

Jim clutched the glass hard against the countertop. 

“If he gets off,” Oswald said, “I will kill him.”

Jim’s eyes bore into him, hard with rage.

“I’m not inclined to stop you.”

`````````````  
Oswald alerted Gabe of Jim’s suspicions about Galavan getting out tomorrow, although Gabe already had a standing order to keep track of Galavan’s movements should this prove to be the case. The hearing was at 4pm.

“I’ll let you know what happens,” Jim said before leaving that morning. 

They did not speak about their deal, but a shadow lurked in Jim’s eyes that had not been there before last night. 

The day slithered along at a glacial pace, making Oswald’s nerves itch, minutes trickling by, like water dripping off a stalactite. Every five minutes, he checked his phone for missed calls. The TV was no distraction at all, nor did the books that Gabe had brought over to try to cheer him up. He wasn’t able to get more than a few paragraphs into any of them. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t grasp onto anything other than the ire bubbling under his skin. He hadn’t wanted to step on Jim’s toes before, but if that monster was allowed to go free, he wouldn’t hold back. And Jim had practically given his permission last night, even if it had fallen far short of a blessing. He needed this. His skin burned with the absolute, burning need to break every bone in Galavan’s body and ensure that he died screaming.

The hour hand on the clock finally reached the black 4. 

4:15. 

4:30. 

4:50. 

Oswald checked his phone, Still no message from Jim. 

5:10. 

5:20. 

At 5:24, his phone rang and he jumped for it, grabbing it from the coffee table. It was Gabe. 

“They let Galavan go,” Gabe said. “James reversed his testimony. He accused you of kidnapping him.”

Typical. Oswald had never been anything more to Galavan than a convenient scapegoat to dump his shit on. But why hadn’t Jim called to tell him this? Was his phone battery dead? Was he busy with something else? 

“Where’s Jim?” Oswald asked. 

“Word is, he punched Galavan in the face and had to be dragged out of the courtroom. That’s all I know.”

“He was supposed to be in contact with me. Find out where he is. And bring me some clothes.”

“Yes, boss.”

As soon as he hung up, Oswald called Jim, but it went to voicemail. Shit. Had he been arrested for contempt? Would Barnes actually do that to his golden boy? An ugly feeling ached at the bottom of his stomach, chilling up his skin to his sweating palms. Something was wrong. He called Jim again, and kept calling until Gabe arrived with a change of clothes. As he was slipping on his pants, Gabe’s phone rang. 

“Galavan has Gordon,” Gabe said after answering.

Oswald crushed the fabric in his hand. Terror choked his throat. He felt sick, nausea churning in his stomach. Clasping on his suspenders with shaking fingers, he grabbed his coat and yanked it on. Fuck getting dressed properly. They had to leave now.

“Take me over there,” Oswald said, running to the door.

“What about the rest of your clothes?” Gabe asked.

“Leave them!”

What good were clothes if Jim was dead? 

Gabe rushed them to the industrial district where Jim was being held. The cops who had taken Jim out of the courtroom were on Galavan’s payroll, which should have been predictable. Why hadn’t Oswald suspected that before? Fuck, he was getting sloppy. His head hadn’t been screwed on right for weeks, his judgment compromised, his mind blunt. If Jim died—

No! 

No one else that he loved would die. He would not let that happen. Not if he had to give his own life to make sure of it. 

They arrived at the warehouse. Oswald’s men quickly dispatched Galavan’s, which were surprisingly few. Was he gone already? Where was he keeping Jim? Two gunshots called his attention to a large room by the back. 

“Boss!” Gabe called out. “I found Gordon.”

Oswald ran, pushing his injured body so hard that pain flared through his shoulder and leg, but he didn’t care. He stepped over the doorway, gasping as he saw Jim lying on the floor between two dead cops, blood flecking his face, eyes barely open. 

“Jim!” Oswald called out, falling beside him. “What happened? Where’s Galavan?”

“You’re here,” Jim murmured, bemusement in his tone.

He looked battered, beaten within an inch of his life.

“Of course I’m here, you idiot. You’re not allowed to die on me.”

But Jim’s eyes were closing. No no no.

“Jim!”

Oswald shook him by the collar, but Jim’s face had fallen slack. Shaking, Oswald pressed his ear against Jim’s chest, frantically searching for his heartbeat. A heavenly thumping vibration greeted his ear. Oh thank God. Oswald gripped Jim’s arms, sucking in grateful breaths. Jim was alive. Injured, but alive. 

He remained still a while longer, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of Jim’s breathing, then raised his head, took his knife out of his pants pocket, and stabbed the cop to his left in the chest again and again until his arm ached and he was covered in blood. He sat back, gasping in rage, knuckles white around the knife handle. Gabe hovered behind him, silent. He knew better than to interrupt Oswald in one of his rages. 

“Where’s Galavan, Gabe?” Oswald asked, cleaning the blade on the cop’s jacket

“We don’t know.”

Great. Wasn’t that just fucking peachy?

“Well.” Oswald stood up. “Logic dictates that he will surface at his building sooner or later. He was cleared of all charges, after all.”

He had the undeserved luxury of going home. Unlike Oswald, who had been chased out like a rat. But he had someone else’s home that he could go to.

“Pick up Jim and take him to the car,” Oswald said. 

Gabe did as instructed, with Oswald following closely by. 

Jim slept for the whole car ride in the backseat, and the whole night afterward. Oswald bandaged his wounds and checked him for more serious injuries, but, thankfully, nothing was broken. He removed Jim’s shoes, jacket and tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He hoped that Jim wouldn’t mind. He had undressed Oswald under similar circumstances, so he really had no reason to be indignant. Oswald slept beside him on what had become his usual side. There was no use waiting up to find Galavan. It was late and, without rest, he wouldn’t have the strength or mental agility to strike back at him. Yet this would all end tomorrow, one way or another. Oswald would make sure of it. 

````````  
A jostling at his side woke up Oswald. The sun greeted his eyelids. Morning. Finally. He turned over. Jim was pushing himself, but he only made it halfway before collapsing on the mattress with a hissed grimace. 

“Jim,” Oswald said, sitting up and facing him. “Don’t get up. You got beaten half to death last night.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jim mumbled.

Oswald rolled his eyes. Of course it wasn’t. The great Jim Gordon could weather anything.

“Thanks for that,” Jim said, meeting his eyes. “Saving me.”

“Of course you’re welcome,” Oswald said, a slight smile sneaking past his worry. “But really, there’s no thanks required. I wouldn’t have let that monster kill you. I would never let anyone hurt you. Ever.”

He looked away, afraid that Jim would be disturbed by the passion of his admission like he had been in times past. Yet there was no troubled discomfort in his eyes when Oswald glanced up him again, only soft contemplation.

“I appreciate that,” Jim said.

A knot of worry dissolved in Oswald’s stomach. 

Jim looked past Oswald at the digital clock on the table.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Jim continued. “I’m already late.”

“You will do no such thing.” Oswald grabbed Jim’s cell phone from the side table. “You’re going to call in sick. Galavan has already nearly killed you twice, so you’re going to stay out of sight until we go in force to hunt him down.”

Jim frowned at him. 

“We?”

“I assume that you want some payback, no? Of course, you’re free to stay home. Our agreement was for you to step aside and let me kill him, after all.”

“I’m not staying home. And I didn’t say anything about stepping aside.”

Jim sat up, wincing as he did so. He rubbed his left ribs, pain streaking his face. 

“You really should lie back down.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Oswald suppressed a sigh of frustration.

“Fine, then. Back to the matter at hand, you did say that I would kill him. You can’t back out now. He’s walking around free. Even if, and that is a very tentative if, you could gather enough evidence to arrest him again on some other charge, what are the chances that they would stick this time? The time for half measures is over. He needs to go down. Tonight. We wait any longer and we will only give him time to do something worse. Now, you can help if you want or you can rest up, which you should do in any case. But don’t even think about trying to stop me, because I won’t let you.”

Jim didn’t look one tiny bit happy. Of course not. But he didn’t argue right away. Or even after a few moments. He just sat on the bed with his usual grumpy expression, his hands tight on the edge of the mattress. That was progress. After a while, he held out his hand.

“I’ll call in to work,” he said.

Releasing a pent up breath, Oswald gave him the phone, but he didn’t relax. As relieved as he was that Jim didn’t push the point, he might have only been delaying it for when they had Galavan in their hands. In the heat of the moment, Jim might revert to the idiotic notion that slipping a pair of cuffs around Galavan’s wrists was the better idea, the end of another alliance that Oswald trusted that turned out to be built on sand when Jim decided that his wants were greater than Oswald’s. Had the disaster of their interactions so far not proved that to be true? But he would deal with that when it came to it. First things first.

After Jim gave his notice, Oswald called Gabe to assemble his men at Jim’s apartment. It wasn’t the most spacious location, but it would have to do. He also called Victor, which didn’t please Jim. Understandable. Oswald had been pretty rancorous himself when he had heard the details, scanty as they were, of the shootout between Jim and Victor at the police precinct, but business was business. Circumstances didn’t allow for this to be anything more than water under the bridge. A necessity that he had to keep in mind when Jim received a call from Bullock and informed him of the situation.

“Harvey’s in,” Jim said after he hung up.

Oswald’s hand tightened around his cup of tea, but strove not to react visibly beyond that as he took a sip and set it down to continue eating his breakfast eggs.

“The more the merrier,” he said.

A hint of sarcasm had slipped into his tone. Well, fuck it.

“He’s not happy about working with you, either,” Jim said. “But we have bigger things to worry about than this grudge you guys have.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself.”

Though he couldn’t speak for Bullock, the lout. 

Gabe and the men started gradually arriving around noon. A large group of thuggish looking men arriving all at once might raise some eyebrows. Jim’s displeasure at having a group of violent criminals in his home showed in the tightness around his eyes, but he had the good sense to be civil, not even acting out when Victor arrived, although he threw Oswald an exasperated look, quietly blaming him for having to share the same air as him. Victor, for his part, only glanced an him with his usual eagle eyed scrutiny before proceeding to the kitchen and helping himself to the bag of tortilla chips on the counter. They ignored each other from then on. Good. If Oswald was expected to tolerate Bullock’s presence, then accommodating Victor was the least that Jim could do. Though the man wouldn’t arrive until after his shift, so at least Oswald didn’t have to deal with him for the entire day. 

Around 3pm, Bullock called again and Jim retreated to his bedroom to answer it. A short while later, he called Oswald into the room. 

“Galavan has Bruce,” Jim told Oswald. 

His voice was tight, worry visible in his eyes.

“Alfred hasn’t seen him since yesterday,” Jim continued. “Galavan is the only one who would take him. I knew that he was after Bruce. I should have done more to protect him.”

Anger rankled in Jim’s voice. Oswald placed his left hand on his arm.

“We will get him back,” he said, voice firm. “And we’ll make Galavan pay, I promise you that.”

Oswald had never cared about the Wayne boy one way or another, but he mattered to Jim, therefore he mattered to him. No one was allowed to hurt those that Jim cared for. No one. Jim searched Oswald’s face. He seemed to be making up his mind about something.

“We will,” he said, voice as hard as stone. “Alfred is on his way here now with Harvey. He’s going to come up with some excuse to get off early. And someone named Lucius Fox. Him I don’t know.”

“He’s an executive at Wayne Enterprises, I believe.”

Jim raised an eyebrow.

“Have you been checking up on Bruce’s company?”

“Jim, I check up on everything. It’s necessary to do business. I have no designs related to it, don’t worry.”

Not that the company didn’t have plenty of fingers in plenty of shady pies, but nothing about it interested him. But as King of Gotham, which he would make sure to become again after this unpleasantness was over, it behooved him to know who was making moves in his turf. Though he didn’t recall Fox being one of the dirty ones. A friend of the family, it seemed. 

“Alright,” Jim said. “Anyway, Alfred is good in a fight. It’ll be good to have him, despite the circumstances.”

“Excellent. We’ll give him a gun as soon as he gets here, then we’ll go.”

Bullock and the rest arrived twenty minutes later. After their usual mutual glare, Oswald endeavored to ignore him as much as possible, and Bullock did the same. Fox would not be joining them in the fight, but they didn’t need anyone else by this point, except for one surprise arrival in the form of Cat. Well, perhaps not so surprising. She was very attached to the Wayne boy, after all, as strongly as Oswald was to Jim, he suspected. She knew a back way into Galavan’s tower. Oswald would have been perfectly happy to barge in through the front door, but sneaking in through the back would give them more time to avoid detection. Everyone suited up and they were off. The plan was simple. Find Galavan, make him reveal Bruce’s location, then Oswald would take away Galavan and kill him at his own discretion. They didn’t disclose this last part out loud, of course. Not with civilians in the mix. Although he sensed enough anger and violence in Pennyworth that he probably wouldn’t mind, but the others might. And Oswald still had Jim’s reluctance to deal with. 

Every muscle in Oswald’s body tensed up as they drove to Galavan’s tower. He kept grabbing the handle of the knife in his left trouser pocket, anticipating the moment when he would drive it through Galavan’s eye socket. He caught Jim watching him once from his peripheral vision, but he quickly looked away when Oswald turned. Neither of them spoke. No one said a word until they arrived and Cat instructed them on how to get inside. She went first, then they followed once she had eliminated the guard on the ground floor. They couldn’t risk taking the elevator, so they had to go all the way up to Galavan’s penthouse via the staircase. Oswald’s leg and shoulder burned at the exertion, injured muscles screaming, but sheer will kept his knee from failing. He had to get up there. He couldn’t slow down, no matter how badly his body pained him. They paced themselves since it would do no good to arrive so winded that they couldn’t fight, but the others’ slow speed was Oswald’s regular speed and he pushed himself forward, refusing to take it easy no matter how many worried comments Gabe shot at him. Even Jim expressed concern, his own breath loud and shallow, but Oswald brushed it aside. His muscles might be burning and his breath short, but he wasn’t tired. Not at all. He couldn’t be. Every step upwards took him one precious foot closer to Galavan and he couldn’t rest until the entire distance was extinguished and he slashed Galavan’s throat. So he pushed forward, even overtaking Jim when he saw the last landing and the staircase door marked P, the floor of the penthouse. 

He stopped in front of it, breath heavy, clutching the rifle in his hands with a punishing grip as he waited for the others to arrive, resting his legs for just a moment. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned around, glaring, only to find Jim regarding him with a mix of determination and concern. 

“You good?” Jim asked.

Oswald nodded.

“I’m excellent.”

Jim took the lead through the door. It didn’t take them long to run into a couple of guards in the corridor. Shots were exchanged, but soon the monks were lying dead on the floor. They rushed down the hall towards the sound of a hellish chanting. It soon lapsed into silence, but it had already led them to a pair of tall doors, which they kicked open. They rushed into a large hall, guns out and pointed at the monks filling the space, which was probably occupied with balls and galas when it wasn’t being used for cheesy sacrifices. Bruce was tied up to a pole in the center of the room wearing a ridiculous white robe straight out of a medieval tome. Yet the ludicrousness of it all didn’t matter. Only Galavan did. And there he was standing before Bruce with his repulsive sister. His finger jerked on the trigger, but he didn’t shoot, not until the head monk shouted, then all hell broke loose. The monks advanced on them with swords and knives and soon some of them were fighting hand on hand, even launching pieces of the room’s décor. Oswald tried to stay close to Jim, but they soon got separated. He turned his shotgun around in his hands when he ran out of bullets and used it as a club, beating a monk’s face to a pulp. He frantically searched the room for Galavan. He wasn’t anywhere. His sister and niece were gone, too. Probably slipped away as soon as the fight started. Fuck! Grabbing Gabe, they shot, kicked, and clobbered their way to the opposite door and rushed down the corridor. Jim was still in the room, but he would be fine. Jim could handle himself. He had this. 

The searched every room they came across, Oswald growing more frantic by the second. He shoved the study door open. 

There! 

Galavan was lying on the floor, pushing himself up on his elbows. Oswald rushed forward and clubbed him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle, driving him back to the ground. He cried out, the sound exquisite to Oswald’s ears. He pointed his rifle at him, itching to pull the trigger, but then it would be over too quickly. Galavan deserved so much worse than that. 

“What the fuck?” Galavan grumbled.

He tried to get up again, but Oswald stepped on his back, keeping him firmly on the ground. Galavan turned his head to the right side as far as he could and peered up at him and Gabe.

“Penguin,” he said, sounding less than pleased. “Delightful.”

“Isn’t it just?” Oswald grinned. “For me, anyway. Not for you, of course.”

Oswald dug his heel into Galavan’s spine until he winced. Such a wonderful sound.

“Are you going to kill him here?” Gabe asked.

“No, not here. Come and tie him up.”

Gabe came over, putting away his gun and getting the rope out of his pocket. As he kneeled down, Galavan put his hands under him and pushed against Oswald’s leg, destabilizing him. Oswald stumbled back, his finger tightening on the trigger, but Gabe punched Galavan in the face, dropping him back on the floor, and pressed his knee on his back.

“Stay down,” Gabe said.

He grabbed Galavan’s recalcitrant hands and started winding the rope (extra scratchy for maximum discomfort) around them. Oswald trained his rifle on Galavan again.

“Alright,” Galavan ground out. “I can see there’s no point struggling further.”

Hurried steps sounded down the corridor. Oswald raised his rifle, but it was Jim running to the door. He lowered the gun back to Galavan. Jim was safe. Blood splattered his clothes here and there, but he had no injuries that Oswald could see. Good. Very good. 

“Detective Gordon,” Galavan said. “Just in time.”

Oswald glared at him. He should have knocked him out. Galavan was going to try to talk Jim out of acquiescing to Oswald’s wishes, to appeal to his better nature. Already, Jim’s expression was filled with conflict and hesitation as he gazed at Galavan. Jim couldn’t go back on their deal. He had promised to be Oswald’s true friend. He couldn’t take this away from him. Oswald wouldn’t let him.

“Bruce is safe,” Jim said, looking at Oswald. “The others are still back there in the room.”

He sounded like he wanted nothing more than to pretend that none of this was happening, yet, at the same time, his right fist tightened, anger seeping into his eyes as he turned back to Galavan.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Oswald said, starting to hope. “Gabe, get him up.”

“Detective,” Galavan said, gasping as Gabe yanked him by his bound arms. “Don’t you see what is happening here? Penguin intends to kill me. You can’t let that happen.”

“What I can’t do is let you walk free again. You got off once. You’ll find a way to do it again.”

Conviction hardened Jim’s voice. It was still a little shaky, but he was determined nonetheless. Oswald breathed a little easier.

“Let’s go,” Oswald told Gabe, who pushed Galavan forward. 

“I’m coming with you,” Jim said after they had passed him out the door.

“You don’t have to,” Oswald said, surprised. “You don’t need to be involved in this.”

“I’m already involved.” Jim met his eyes. They were furious, pained, and completely resolute. “I can’t just step aside. I can’t.”

He started down the hall, passing Gabe, who had stopped to wait for Oswald. Oswald hurried after him.

They didn’t speak as they took the elevator down to the ground floor, nor as they stuffed Galavan into the trunk, except on Galavan’s part to attempt to dissuade Jim from his course of actions, but Jim acted as if he couldn’t hear him. Jim drove them out to the docks, equally silent. Oswald tensed as they approached, wondering if he was going to take them to that same, familiar dock where Jim had spared him, but Jim passed it by. Oswald sagged in relief. He didn’t know why he had been worried, why he feared that Jim might connect the two events. Jim’s silence unnerved him. 

Jim stopped the car near the shoreline. As Oswald pulled the door handle to get out of the car, his heart began to beat faster, anticipation burning in the back of his throat. Sand crunched under his feet as he and Jim made their way toward the back of the car. The crisp air hit his face, but he barely felt it, anticipation warming his skin. It was finally happening. At last, his mother would be avenged. Jim opened the trunk. Galavan looked no less wilted for the uncomfortable ride. He would be soon. 

“You will regret this, detective,” Galavan said as Jim and Oswald pulled him out of the trunk. Oswald dug his nails into his ankles while he was at it. 

“I have many regrets,” Jim said. “This won’t be at the top of my list.”

While Jim dragged Galavan closer to the water, Oswald took a bat out of the trunk. He wrapped his fist firmly around the wooden handle as he turned around. Jim had let go of Galavan, but he had nowhere to run. He simply stood there, regarding them with a tired acceptance.

“So here we are,” Galavan said as Oswald approached. “Shame. It’s going to be a beautiful morning.”

More beautiful for the fact that Galavan would be too dead to see it. Jim stepped back to give Oswald more room. Their eyes met. He couldn’t read Jim’s expression clearly. Resignation was all that he could make out. No time to dwell on that. Oswald turned his attention back to Galavan. His hand tightened on the bat.

“This is for my mother,” he said, angry bitterness scalding his tongue, and he swung high with the bat, beating Galavan to the ground. Galavan cried out and Oswald hit him again. And again. Each blow filled with all the rage and pain that had assaulted him since he had seen his mother suffering on that monitor. Every tear he paid back twofold on Galavan’s breaking skin, every scream of rage a shattered bone. He couldn’t even enjoy the sound of Galavan’s screaming above the nauseating memory of his own. 

“Oswald.”

His breath scalded his throat.

“Oswald!”

Oswald stopped. His muscles shook with the effort of standing still as he looked over his shoulder at Jim, who had his gaze fixed on Galavan’s face.

“Kill me,” Galavan moaned.

Oswald glared at him, raising his bat again, but he stopped when he saw Jim moving in his peripheral vision. He had taken out his gun. He aimed it at Galavan, his face as unreadable as before. Oswald stepped back, lost for words. A shot rang out across the shore as Jim pulled the trigger, striking Galavan straight in the heart. Oswald gasped, gazing at Jim, shocked.

Jim had killed Galavan. He had actually killed Galavan. A smile burst on his face, sudden, relieved, excited. Jim turned away. The smile faded. Jim holstered his gun and walked back to the car. Oswald followed him, bursting with the need to ask why Jim had done this, why he had taken that extra step that Oswald had assured him that he didn’t need to, but Jim kept on walking. He stopped a few yards past the car and stood there, unmoving, his hands clenching beside him. 

Oswald glanced at the bat in his hand and the broken body lying behind him. It was done. His mother had been avenged. Jim would never be in danger from Galavan again. And Jim had proven his friendship in a way that he had never expected. Had Jim killed him for Oswald? For himself? Out of a sense of mercy? All three? 

Oswald threw the bat beside Galavan’s body and pulled out his umbrella from the trunk. It was a shame to waste it, but he had to re-stake his claim on this town. He turned back toward Galavan.

“Don’t you think that’s a little much?” Jim asked some time later.

Oswald turned around at the sound of his voice. He had heard Jim’s footsteps on the sand, but he had been busy with Galavan.

“People need to know that I’m back in charge in this town,” Oswald said.

Perhaps ramming an umbrella down Galavan’s throat wasn’t the most elegant way to go about that, but it was effective. Of course, it wouldn’t be Jim’s preferred way of doing things. He would probably rather that Oswald quietly dumped the body in an incinerator, never to be heard from again. Although, if it was his own freedom that he was concerned about, he needn’t worry.

“No one will connect you to this,” Oswald said. “I promise.”

Now that he was finally back in position to make promises again. Jim glanced at him, but didn’t respond. 

“We should get going,” he said instead. 

Oswald looked at Galavan one last time, then turned away, walking quickly toward the car. A cold breeze chilled his neck as he walked. He pulled his coat collar tighter around himself. He yanked the passenger door open and sank into the seat. Maybe he should have offered to drive. Jim didn’t look like he was all there right now, his eyes gazing somewhere other than the bleak landscape of the industrial warehouses around them as he slid into the car. But Oswald’s arms were sore and his right leg screamed with pain and his mother’s last words sprang into his mind, unable to be quelled, even as that piece of shit lied dead behind him. Revenge was his. The Gotham underworld would be at his command once again.

Jim started the car. He didn’t even wait for it to warm up before taking off. They drove in silence, just like before. Gabe and most of his men were at the warehouse they had determined as a rendezvous point when they arrived. Victor had already gone home, as well as Pennyworth and Cat with Bruce. Gabe fussed over him, which was completely unnecessary. Jim lingered only long enough to drop the gun he had used before ducking back outside, Bullock at his side. After he was done making arrangements with Gabe, Oswald found him sitting in his car. The engine hummed in the silent darkness, the brake lights blaring red. Panicked, Oswald rushed to the driver’s window, tapping on the pane. Jim glanced up at him. He didn’t lower the window. He didn’t speak. Oswald found himself at a loss for words. He opened his mouth to ask, _Are you leaving?_ when Jim finally rolled down the window a sliver and said,

“Get in.”

Oswald rushed to the other side of the car and did exactly that. Jim took his foot off the brake and maneuvered them onto the road. The car had already been in Drive. 

`````````````````````

It was past midnight when they returned to the apartment, so Jim went straight to bed. He would be going to work the next morning. Not going to work two days in a row might look suspicious later on. Missing one day was bad enough. Jim got into the bed and pulled up the covers around himself before Oswald had even had a chance to take off his tie. But he wasn’t asleep when Oswald turned off the lights and slipped in beside him. His breath didn’t have that steady, relaxed rhythm of unconsciousness. The tension in his body practically vibrated off of him. They lied with their backs to each other, listening to each other’s breaths. Oswald wished to say something, but what would be the point of doing so now? They both needed to sleep. Jim especially since he had an early wake up call. So Oswald closed his eyes and used the quick sleeping technique that he had developed in his youth to whisk himself away to unconsciousness. 

Sometime later, he awoke to a strong arm wrapped around his waist. Startled, he opened his eyes and assessed the situation, remembering in the next second that he was in Jim’s bed. Darkness still permeated the room. That arm had to be Jim’s. A snore rattled against his ribcage from a face pressed to his back. Jim was cuddling him? Obviously, he didn’t know that it was Oswald he held. In his sleep, Jim probably sought Lee, or even Barbara. Never him. Oswald reached down to touch Jim’s hand on his stomach, but he stopped just short of doing so. Should he move? It felt wrong to enjoy Jim’s attentions in this covert way while Jim was ignorant of his actions. It wasn’t Jim’s wish to press himself against Oswald so tenderly or for his breath to brush Oswald’s skin like a gulp of fresh air that Oswald had not gasped in years, perhaps in his whole life. 

Slowly, careful not to wake him, he picked up Jim’s right arm, lifted it off his body, and lowered it onto the mattress. He allowed himself to linger on the soft skin for a moment longer than necessary, then scooted forward on the bed and retreated to the living room. He waited on the couch for about half an hour, then checked on Jim again. The dimness of the light filtering through the window made it hard to see, but as he stepped closer to the bed, he saw the outline of Jim’s head facing in the opposite direction, Jim having shifted onto his back. Good. Regret clinging to the back of his throat, Oswald slipped back under the covers, keeping to the edge of the bed. He didn’t sleep for a long while. 

````````````````

“Oswald?” Jim asked over breakfast the next morning.

Oswald would have preferred to sleep a little longer, but the events of last night and Jim’s apparent desire to leave him at the warehouse without even saying goodbye made him a bit skittish, so he clung to as much contact as Jim was willing to give him, which he feared would be coming up short soon. Perhaps, given the uncomfortable expression troubling Jim’s eyes, even now.

“Yes?” Oswald asked, schooling his face to disguise his growing trepidation.

“Your shoulder is a lot better, right?”

“Yes. It still hurts.” He didn’t expect that pain to fully go away, just like his leg’s. “But I am much recovered.”

“And Galavan is obviously no longer a threat. You’re not cleared with the GCPD, but I can help muddy those waters. What I mean to say is—“

“You want me to leave.”

“No. I mean—“ Jim paused to recompose his words. “I’m not kicking you out. I know I didn’t even ask your permission to bring you here.”

“You don’t need to explain. Of course, this arrangement was a temporary one and, like you said, my position is no longer so threatened, so there is no need for me hide out here any longer. I’ll call Gabe to pick me up and I’ll leave today. Actually, it would probably be easier if I leave with you so you don’t have to worry about locking up.”

“You don’t have to leave right now. I didn’t mean—You can stay here longer if you need to.”

“That’s alright. It’s not like I need to pack anything. I just have one change of clothes. It’s fine.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I always have a contingency plan. I’ll be alright.”

Oswald utilized all his acting skills to effect a purely sincere seeming smile. After a moment’s hesitation, Jim returned it with a half-smile. It was the most he had ever hoped to get from him. 

“I just want to say,” Oswald said as Jim returned to his meal, “That I really appreciate you finding me that night and bringing me here. You saved my life. I know I’ve said this before, but thank you.”

Jim lowered his fork again.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, glancing away. “I wasn’t acting completely altruistically.”

“Never mind the reasons.” Oswald waved the concern away. “Water under the bridge. I was floundering and you helped me. That’s what matters to me.” 

Jim met his eyes. After a moment, he nodded.

“You’re welcome,” he said. 

Thirty minutes later, Oswald accompanied Jim out the door and down the elevator to the lobby, where Oswald would wait for Gabe to arrive. Jim had offered to drive him where he needed to go, but he didn’t want to make Jim late for work. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Jim said, shaking Oswald’s hand. “Careful out there.”

Oswald clung to the physical contact for as long as politeness allowed him, returning Jim’s firm grip.  
“You, too,” Oswald said. “I’ll see you later.”

Jim gifted him with one more small smile before turning away and walking out the front door. It appeared sincere. Oswald hoped it was.


End file.
